Token
by murdur
Summary: Sif makes ready for war and is offered a token upon her departure
1. Token

Sif made ready, walking her charger Ylda up the palace cobblestone to fall in line with the other waiting warhorses. The skin on the back of her neck pricked with a soft tingle, one she had grown quite familiar with. She was being watched.

She turned back towards the palace, her eyes searching. She found him, standing on the balcony dressed in all of his ceremonial finery and looking directly at her.

She spun back around and continued her duties, sheathing her blade securely on her back, and placing the light armor to settle on Ylda's flanks. The horse stood steady, unafraid of the battle that awaited them beyond the walls of the city and across branches.

She was hoisting her pack and shield onto the horse when she became aware of the approaching footsteps, the determined stride ringing out over the bustle of Einherjar. The warrior turned and found his tall figure stopped before her, his green cape fluttered in the gentle breeze. Sif noted the way his chest heaved slightly under heavy leather and gold plating, as if he had ran to the yard.

"My Prince," Sif crossed her arm over her chest in salute. Loki dipped his head in acknowledgement and stepped forward. His eyes cast down, he lifted his hands in offer.

"Lady Sif," his voice was formal but slightly breathless. "I wish to offer you a token of goodwill."

In his hands, he cradled a handsome cloth of the most enchanting green.

Sif stepped forward, sliding her hands carefully under the proffered gift, ignoring the shock that ran up her spine when his skin met hers. Sif admired the delicate golden serpents embroidered along the edge of the supple cloth. The fabric alone would have made a fine favor to receive but when she lifted she found an unexpected weight to it.

Gently, Sif pulled back a corner and opened the handkerchief. Wrapped inside with a curved blade and a dual handle was Loki's dagger. Sif recognized it as one that frequently graced the prince's hip.

"It is my _most_ beloved," Loki stepped closer once more. All sounds of commotion around them seemed to disappear from her ears, focused only on the confidential, intimate voice he now addressed her with. "I would be utterly distraught if any peril befell it."

Loki reached up, dragging a finger along the blade, over the handle, and down to wrap long fingers around Sif's wrist. The shieldmaiden found herself to be the breathless one.

"I would hate to cause any anguish, my prince," her eyes flicked up to meet his with sincerity.

Promise me then," he leaned forward, earnest. "That you will see its safe return back to me."

"I swear to you," Sif lifted one hand and brought it to cover Loki's hand, still encircling her wrist, with a slow, steady touch. "I will do everything in my power to ensure it finds its way back to your side."

Sif returned his intense gaze, full of more than she could possibly name. A loud horn suddenly sounded, drawing their attention and signaling the warrior's imminent leave-taking.

With care, Sif tucked the favored dagger into her tall boot and then offered her wrist to the prince once more. With tender care, he tied the green cloth around her wrist and then helped her mount her steed, still clasping her hand.

"Thank you, Loki." Sif leaned forward and placed a kiss upon the back of his raised hand.

"Farewell, Sif." Loki lowered his hand and stepped back. "Godspeed".

At the sound of another horn, she kicked her horse forward to march with her allies towards the gates.

She turned to see him watching her departure, his fingers tracing the brand of her lips on the back of his hand, waiting her safe return.\

* * *

Originally written for Sifki week back in July and I just forgot to post here. Hope you enjoy :)


	2. Return

Loki sits in his study, anxiety plaguing his thoughts. His pen scratches at the parchment in the flickering candle light, his elegant scrawl gleaming with wet ink as dusk creeps in through the high windows.

Dispatches from the field have made their way to him. Messages of impending victory, though not without great loss cover his desk. Delivered once a week, they are artless communication, emotionless and factual. They do little to still his concern. And so he writes his unsent replies, allowing his hand to communicate what his lips cannot, staining his fingers with their inky whisper: _Come back to me, come back to me, come back..._

A sound comes to him, distant at first but growing louder to break through his reverie. A horn is trumpeting below, beyond the gates of the city, signaling the arrival he has prayed for each night. The sound lifts him to his feet, rushes him to the window and he can just see the first spill of victors returning home.

With shaking fingers, he dons his cape and bursts out of the chamber and past the royal guard sent to summon him. His heart is racing but he wills his feet to slow, carrying him gracefully to the balcony above the street.

He observes the warparty's return, stoically nodding his greeting to the weary looking battalion. However his eyes search frantically, looking at each face that moves below. From his position, his view is distant but encompassing. He tries to steady his breath.

The dead are amongst the victors, bodies draped upon warhorses and carried by their weary compatriots upon stretchers. With each passing face, his alarm grows.

When he sees it, a scrap of green bright amongst the soiled and spattered warriors his heart leaps and then crashes. Pushing off from the balcony ledge, forgetting himself, he turns and races through the palace hallways and down the many golden steps to the street below.

The men stop and bow, making way for their prince until he reaches the stretcher he searched for. The one with the arm swinging from underneath the sheet covering the body. An arm bound in green velvet.

"No," he whispers, ignoring the many eyes upon him, and reaches for the edge of the covering to rip it back.

A young face stares back with lifeless eyes. The boy looks no older than an adolescent. The men around him wait but Loki cannot find any words for his confusion, his relief.

"She tried to save him, Your Highness," a soldier bows near him gesturing to the tourniquet that was once the prince's cloth, "but the bleeding was too strong."

"Where is she?" he spins, not caring to mask the desperation in his voice.

* * *

A healer pulls back the curtain that surrounds the sick bed, allowing him entrance and letting it fall behind him as she takes her leave, offering a small amount of privacy amongst the many occupied beds in the hospital wing.

He stands, feet that raced the floors now suddenly unsure and still below him. His eyes drink her in, noting the deep purple under her eyes and the blood seeping through her many bandages. But she is alive. She turns her head at the sound of the curtain's rustle and pushes herself to sit up against her pillows.

"My Prince," Sif raises her arm to her chest in salute, wincing in pain as the motion pulls at the bandages the cover her shoulder and ribs.

He steps forward, and finds that his voice fails him. The warrior gestures for him to sit, and he accepts the invitation, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

"I hope the victory pleases you, My Lord," Sif smiles tiredly.

"More than you could ever know," Loki nods deeply.

"I kept my word to you," Sif reaches below her covers and lifts his favored blade between them in her palms. "Although I fear I lost your cloth."

"I feared I lost much more than that," Loki confesses, his heart constricting in his chest. He raises his hands and gently guides Sif's fingers to encircle the blade in her palms, resting his hands atop them. "Keep it, Sif."

"Loki," his name from her lips is a balm, a benediction.

"Keep it," he repeats and leans forward to kiss her, soft and long. "It's yours. I'm yours."


End file.
